Things poets do:
Lie on the floor and listen to the steps of other people in the building apply this noise that sounds like heartbeats. Try to decide if this house with a pulse might be as restless at you are. Start to keep a bag packed in case the house decides to uproot itself and run away to find love in another country.
Categorize the eye colours of past lovers like this:
The blue of the northern snow and ice and how he was as unmoving and unforgiving as the frost of winter. He was always kissing for the same reasons wolfs howl, because they’re scared of being alone.
The honey that belonged to a sweet string of nights in the city when everything stuck to your skin.
The pale blue of oceans and open skies and how he laughed like thunder and in the end didn’t want you, offering you rigged tests you were meant to fail. And suddenly you missed the cold cause now you understand the comfort of being angry.
The caramel colours of beer and fading bruises made by careless teeth while laughing and the bruises lasted longer than he did. And how you hated yourself for not being able to stay, convincing yourself that maybe you needed destruction on your life because you’re all pieces and bubble gum struggling to stay collected.
Grow cactuses in their windowsill to remind themselves that even things stuck in the desert grow. Even prickly things that have no hands to feel empty get to bloom when the time is right.
Drink too much of everything because it has become important to devour it all. You’ve spent so much time choking on your own heartbeat that you want to feel life itself flow down your throat. And there is a joke in there that you frequently want to tell people while refilling your glass, but never do. Your life is an endless fluctuation between limitation and over indulgence.
Fuck up and write pretty lies.